The White Tiger

'No.'

'No? What does that mean?'

'I was faithful to Pinky-my wife-the whole time.'

'My. You were faithful. What an idea. Faithfully married. No wonder it ended in divorce. Have you never had a white woman?'

'I told you.'

'God. Why is it always the wrong kind of Indian who goes abroad? Listen, do you want one now? A European girl?'

'Now?'

'Now,' he said. 'A female from Russia. She looks just like that American actress.' He mentioned a name. 'Want to do it?'

'A whore?'

The fat man smiled. 'A friend. A magical friend. Want to do it?'

'No. Thanks. I'm seeing someone. I just met someone I knew a long-'

The fat man took out his cell phone and punched some numbers. The light of the phone made a blue halo on his face.

'She's there right now. Let's go see her. She's a stunner, I tell you. Just like that American actress. Do you have thirty thousand on you?'

'No. Listen. I'm seeing someone. I'm not-'

'No problem. I'll pay now. You can pay later. Just put it into the next envelope you give the minister.' He put his hand on Mr. Ashok's hand and winked, then leaned over and gave instructions to me. I looked at Mr. Ashok in the rearview mirror as hard as I could.

A whore? That's for people like me, sir. Are you sure you want this?

I wish I could have told him this openly-but who was I? Just the driver.

I took orders from the fat man. Mr. Ashok said nothing-just sat there sucking his whiskey like a boy with a soda. Maybe he thought it was a joke, or maybe he was too frightened of the fat man to say no.

But I will defend his honor to my deathbed. They corrupted him.

The fat man made me drive to a place in Greater Kailash-another housing colony where people of quality live in Delhi. Touching my neck with his icy glass when I had to make a turn, he guided me to the place. It was as large as a small palace, with big white columns of marble up the front. From the amount of garbage thrown outside the walls of the house, you knew that rich people lived here.

The fat man held open the car door as he spoke into a phone. Five minutes later he slammed the door shut. I began sneezing. A weird perfume had filled the back of the car.

'Stop that sneezing and drive us toward Jangpura, son.'

'Sorry, sir.'

The fat man smiled. He turned to the girl who had got into the car and said, 'Speak to my friend Ashok in Hindi, please.'

I looked into the rearview mirror, and caught my first glimpse of this girl.

It's true, she did look like an actress I had seen somewhere or other. The name of the actress, though, I didn't know. It's only when I came to Bangalore and mastered the use of the Internet-in just two quick sessions, mind you!-that I found her photo and name on Google.

Kim Basinger.

That was the name the fat man had mentioned. And it was true-the girl who got in with the fat man did look exactly like Kim Basinger! She was tall and beautiful, but the most remarkable thing about her was her hair-golden and glossy, just like in the shampoo advertisements!

'How are you, Ashok?' She said it in perfect Hindi. She put her hand out and took Mr. Ashok's hand.

The minister's assistant chuckled. 'There. India has progressed, hasn't it? She's speaking in Hindi.'

He slapped her on the thigh. 'Your Hindi has improved, dear.'

Mr. Ashok leaned back to speak to the fat man over her shoulder. 'Is she Russian?'

'Ask her, don't ask me, Ashok. Don't be shy. She's a friend.'

'Ukrainian,' she said in her accented Hindi. 'I am a Ukrainian student in India.'

I thought: I would have to remember this place, Ukraine. And one day I would have to go there!

'Ashok,' the fat man said. 'Go on, touch her hair. It's real. Don't be scared-she's a friend.' He chuckled. 'See- didn't hurt, did it, Ashok? Say something in Hindi to Mr. Ashok, dear. He's still frightened of you.'

'You're a handsome man,' she said. 'Don't be frightened of me.'

'Driver.' The fat man leaned forward and touched me with his cold glass again. 'Are we near Jangpura?'

'Yes, sir.'

'When you go down the Masjid Road, you'll see a hotel with a big neon T sign on it. Take us there.'

I got them there in ten minutes-you couldn't miss the hotel, the big T sign on it glowed like a lantern in the dark.

Taking the golden-haired woman with him, the fat man went up to the hotel reception, where the manager greeted him warmly. Mr. Ashok walked behind them and kept looking from side to side, like a guilty little boy about to do something very bad.

Half an hour passed. I was outside, my hands on the wheel the whole time. I punched the little ogre. I began to gnaw at the wheel.

I kept hoping he'd come running out, arms flailing, and screaming, Balram, I was on the verge of making a mistake! Save me-let's drive away at once!

An hour later Mr. Ashok came out of the hotel-alone, and looking ill.

'The meeting's over, Balram,' he said, letting his head fall back on the seat. 'Let's go home.'

I didn't start the car for a second. I kept my finger on the ignition key.

'Balram, let's go home, I said!'

'Yes, sir.'

When we got back to Gurgaon, he staggered out toward the elevator. I did not leave the car. I let five minutes pass, and then drove back to Jangpura, straight to the hotel with the T on it.

I parked in a corner and watched the door of the hotel. I wanted her to come out.

A rickshaw-puller drove up next to me, a small, unshaven, stick-thin man, who looked dead tired as he wiped his face and legs clean with a rag, and went to sleep on the ground. On the seat of his rickshaw was a white advertising sticker:

IS EXCESS WEIGHT A PROBLEM FOR YOU?

CALL JIMMY SINGH AT METRO GYM: 9811799289

The mascot of the gym-an American with enormous white muscles-smiled at me from above the slogan. The rickshaw-puller's snoring filled the air.

Someone in the hotel must have seen me. After a while, the door opened: a policeman came out, peered at me, and then began walking down the steps.

I turned the key; I took the car back to Gurgaon.

Now, I've driven around Bangalore at night too, but I never get that feeling here that I did in Delhi-the feeling that if something is burning inside me as I drive, the city will know about it-she will burn with the same thing.

My heart was bitter that night. The city knew this-and under the dim orange glow cast everywhere by the weak streetlamps, she was bitter.

Speak to me of civil war, I told Delhi.

I will, she said.

An overturned flower urn on a traffic island in the middle of a road; next to it three men sit with open mouths. An older man with a beard and white turban is talking to them with a finger upraised. Cars drive by him with their dazzling headlights, and the noise drowns out his words. He looks like a prophet in the middle of the city, unnoticed except by his three apostles. They will become his three generals. That overturned flower urn is a symbol of some kind.

Speak to me of blood on the streets, I told Delhi.

I will, she said.

I saw other men discussing and talking and reading in the night, alone or in clusters around the streetlamps.